


Shelf Life

by Galadriel



Category: Altered Carbon (TV)
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Fist Fights, Frottage, M/M, Memories, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Siblings, Yuletide, Yuletide 2019, Yuletide Assignment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel
Summary: Without a sleeve, Takeshi dreams. (Set after Season 1.)
Relationships: Kristin Ortega/Elias Ryker, Laurens Bancroft/Takeshi Kovacs, Quellcrist Falconer | Nadia Makita/Takeshi Kovacs, Takeshi Kovacs/Elias Ryker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Shelf Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MGVR](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MGVR/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, MGVR! I love Altered Carbon too, and I was so excited to be able to write something for someone who enjoys it as much as I do!
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this fic. I've tried to hit your favourite parts of the show: a psychological dreamscape with a pinch of whump (and a little torture), and a dash or two of sex. Hopefully it fits the bill.

The breeze brushes Takeshi's hair from his forehead, gently raising and lowering it with all the care of a lover. His lungs fill with the sweet scent of wisteria, and he takes a long moment to simply breathe, in and out and in, eyes closed as he lets pure sensation wash over him. 

As much as he exists only in this moment, not caring to search his mind too extensively, the ragged edge is there, the unfinished moment of memory that is the telltale sign of a stack that has spun down and up again, the pause between sleeves, between worlds and lifetimes, the pause that marks him, time after time, as a man forever out of time. He can feel the way the corners of his mouth tug downward at this revelation; another time, another place, another body beckons him forward, pulling him inexorably away from his past.

Everything is the present when the past does not matter.

With the deliberation born of a multitude of lifetimes stacked one atop the other -- a tower of people and lives and beginnings and endings, all slipped on and off like so many second-hand shoes -- Takeshi waits. He senses no danger on the wind, no looming threat over his shoulder, no glittering knife just out of reach, ready to slide between his ribs. It is just him and his heartbeat and the green taste of newly-mown grass, raw and bright on his tongue.

The wind, impatient with his stillness, ruffles his hair, brushes his cheek. And it carries to him a familiar voice, one he carries with him in his heart, even as his heart changes and is changed out.

"Brother? Will you not look at me?"

Reileen. 

In the near-dark behind his eyelids, Takeshi waits for the memory of his sister to fade. Because that is what it has to be: nothing more than a memory, feeding directly into a stack dream. He has heard of them before, whispered rumours of what happens in a stack while the person inside is spun down. Dreams and visions, half-remembered moments swirled together with half-believed lies. Flecks of humanity suspended in alien technology, a fly caught in amber waiting to be released.

But for all his time as an Envoy, all his skipping through many a sleeve, Takeshi has never experienced such a thing. No, moving from sleeve to sleeve is nothing more than the snapping off and on of an ancient lightswitch, a heartbeat between what was and what is. Hundreds of years may pass, hundreds of worlds may pass beneath him, but he has lived but a moment, needlecast across the distance between death and life once again.

Perhaps this is a consequence of living so many lives that aren't his own. Perhaps the dreams come as the sleeves stack up. 

"...Tak?" Her voice is more insistent now, an edge of pleading and promise, the dream honing her presence into a wound. 

Takeshi opens his eyes.

"Rei." The word is out before he can stop it, before he can clamp virtual lips down on virtual breath. And it is her, in every way he remembers her best: beautiful and dangerous and loving and sharp. She smiles at him, expression mild and patient, in every way the sister he wishes to remember, and not the wild-eyed, bloodied woman whom he said goodbye to in the clouds. 

Not the sister who snuffed out his love's life, nor the one who waited hundreds of years to drag him back into her orbit. Not the woman who wandered so far from the young girl he clung to in his youth, whom he loved and was loved by both fiercely and loyally. 

No, in these eyes he sees the sister who smiled up at him, the one who kept close, the one who followed him into battle, and believed whole-heartedly that amongst all the ages of the earth, they would always be at each other's side.

The scent of wisteria is stronger now, and Reileen reaches out, offering her hand. "Walk with me." 

It is then that Takeshi realizes that a garden has blossomed around them, bisected by a lazily wandering pathway winding into a nearby grove of trees. And even as Quell's voice rings in his head, reminding him to adapt and bend this virtual world, this _dream_ into a viable tool, he reaches out and grasps Reileen's hand, and lets himself be led.

Her fingers are warm against his, each callus exactly where he remembers it was. He didn't realize until this very moment how much _detail_ he could pull from his own memory, how many years he'd spent unconsciously memorizing every tiny element of her. 

"You're dead," he breathes, even as his gaze travels up and down her, searching for the telltale signs of their last encounter. He can see no bullet holes, no blood, not even a scratch to her skin or a tear to her clothes. 

"Am I?" She chuckles, a low, soft sound that makes him shiver. "I don't feel dead." She raises her other hand, brushing her hair off her shoulder. "I must not really be, then." 

Takeshi frowns. As much as he can feel her palm against his, as much as he can fill his lungs with clean, crisp air, he knows this is a fiction born of nothing but his fondest wishes. He knows he has a responsibility to untangle himself from it, to bring himself back to reality, but if he is sleeveless, simply in his stack, where would he go?

Where does anyone go anymore?

"You're gone," he murmurs, the words a reminder to himself rather than her spectre. "I stayed with you even as I let you go--" 

Above him, the sudden roar of an engine sunders the silence. Takeshi looks up into a birdless sky as a shuttle streaks just beneath the clouds, the blue glow of its repulsors painting the air.

"Tak." Reileen squeezes his hand, tugging gently. "Tak, look at me. Tak."

The shuttle swivels, changing direction mid-stream. He can hear the whine of the engine building as it repositions, readying for its next manoeuvre. The communications link crackles in his ear, and he blinks against the smoke and ash that wafts and drifts around him. 

" _Tak_ \--" It is one word, spoken by two voices in tandem. Two halves that would have made him whole, Rei and Quell-- 

\--The shuttle explodes in a burst of flame, spreading out like a stain. Takeshi hears someone shouting, but it isn't until he lurches forward, dropping Rei's hand as he dashes into the trees, that he realizes it is his own voice. The anguish is multiplied by memory; he has revisited this moment so many times, and each time the pit in his stomach grows larger. As he runs towards the debris field, his shoes slide on the muddy ground, churned up by the feet of rebels and soldiers. The grove itself is on fire, trees aflame on either side of him, the heat intensifying as he closes the distance between himself and the rubble of the shuttle. He's almost there. Almost. And as in every dream he has ever had, every moment he's spent reliving this one, he knows if he can just make his way there, he will find her, find Quell's stack, and he will spin her back up and damn all the consequences.

"I don't think so, buddy." A shadowed form steps out from behind an ash-covered rock, directly in Takeshi's path. "We've got business, you and I."

A side-step should be all it takes to avoid this person, all that is needed to move beyond him to his goal, but a hand shoots out, grabbing Takeshi by the upper arm. "Kovacs," he growls, and in that moment, Takeshi knows who he is. 

Ryker. The memory of Ryker that is a memory of himself, the last Envoy in captivity.

"Get out of my way." The words are soft, but the meaning behind them is clear. Whatever twisted stack-addled vision this is, Takeshi has no time for it. He moves to step around Ryker, but Ryker matches him. 

"You nearly killed her." Ryker's hand is on Takeshi's chest, palm flat and fingers splayed. "I nearly lost Kristin because of _you_."

"I saved you." Takeshi can hear the crackle of fire licking at the remains of the shuttle, and underneath it, the distinct sound of static. He is so close. _So close_. Quell could be only a few short strides away. 

"Hey!" Takeshi stumbles backward as Ryker brings all his weight to bear in a shove. "You almost _killed her_. You kill _everyone_ you love."

"I--" 

The fist comes at him so fast it is all he can do to duck. A step to the side, a twist of his torso, and he regains his equilibrium long enough to swing back. The impact is solid, drawing a satisfying crack as _his_ fist connects with Ryker's cheek.

The hit should down anyone but an Envoy. But in this dream, trapped in a stack without a sleeve, Ryker is an Envoy. And an enemy. And an echo. 

An echo of every move, every tactic, every strategy Takeshi has ever employed.

For a long moment, they grapple, well-matched, one against the other. Takeshi isn't sure who it is who steps wrong and slips, but they tumble to the ground, clinging to each other even as the blows land and miss and land again. Beneath them, ash and mud are churned together, sticking to their clothes, clotting in their hair. Ryker thrusts his head forward, and for one strange, protracted stretch, Takeshi is convinced Ryker is going to kiss him. 

It isn't until Ryker's teeth sink into the flesh of Takeshi's bottom lip, almost immediately drawing blood, that he shakes the sensation. But all the same, the bite, the bruising, the beating and the brawling have his body humming, bucking underneath Ryker in something akin to pleasurable pain. It's loathsome, in that it is just another obstacle in between Takeshi and Quell, but that doesn't stop him from returning the bite with just a little less force. Just a little lighter, not quite breaking the skin, testing his opponent and examining his reactions. 

If Ryker truly is nothing but an echo, that would explain why he arches against Takeshi and grabs his shirt in both hands. It explains the way in which Ryker's hips rock back and forth against him; the way Ryker's breath catches in his throat. Stimulus and response, the response a mirror of Takeshi's own, another flight of fancy made real in a virtual world. 

He can feel himself hardening despite his better judgement, feel Ryker's response, and feel the satisfying friction of fabric on fabric on cock. He gasps and clings all the closer to Ryker, all thought of fight long since fled from his head, riding out the wrongness of hate mingled with heat as waves of pleasure rise and fall, rise and fall, goading him on and on.

This is what he should guard against. This is a distraction, a deviation from his path, from his purpose, from the single-minded focus and drive of an Envoy. But perhaps that is the problem. 

When everything is the present, does the past even matter?

Does the future even matter?

As Ryker ducks his head to nip at Takeshi's throat, Takeshi finds has no answer; perhaps that is because he cannot form a coherent thought with teeth scraping gently over his skin; perhaps it is because he is far too distracted by the warm hand wriggling under his belt. Or perhaps it is because there is no answer, certainly not here, deep in the stacks, deep in his own mind, talking and tussling with the spectres of those he's left behind.

Perhaps that's the only measure of time passing into the past: loss. Perhaps that's the key to immortality: being able to bear the loss of those you have loved long enough to lose again.

Even those thoughts flit from his head as Ryker's hand curves around warm flesh, stroking upward in one slow, firm motion. Takeshi's lips part around a gasp, his hips rising, cock twitching against Ryker's palm, his head tipping backward as his whole body jerks, once, twice--

\--The lights are harsh. Too bright, too white, and set to hang too low down from the ceiling. Takeshi squints against the invasion, catching a glimpse of himself in the metal ring around the light directly above his head. The curve of the fixture distorts his reflection, but he can see black hair, dark skin, brown eyes, and traces of neat facial hair framing an angular jaw. 

He shifts, attempting to rise, and finds himself tugging against strong bonds, four points of contact keeping him pinned to a large metal frame. The metal protests as he brings his weight to bear, yanking and twisting his wrists and ankles, arching his body as he looks for a weakness that will allow him to escape.

"Ah. There you are." The oily voice slides smoothly around the whorls of Takeshi's ears. "Slowing down, are you, Envoy?" The figure leans into Takeshi's field of view, blocking the light and his reflection, and for one dangerous moment, Takeshi is blinded by the change in illumination. "I certainly hope not. I would hate for my investment to have been damaged through lack of use."

As Takeshi's eyes adjust, the figure swims and divides. The white shirt is almost as blinding as the light itself, but there is no mistaking the oozing smugness of the man who has him at his mercy. Takeshi wets his lips. "I thought you were on ice." 

"Yes, well, there's only so long you can keep a Meth contained." Bancroft's fingers brush lightly against Takeshi's hip, alerting him to his own nudity. The touch sends shivers up and down Takeshi's spine. "And there's only so long one can tolerate punishment before boredom sets in." His fingertips wander lower, sliding across Takeshi's thigh. "I felt it was high time we renewed our acquaintance, didn't you?" His smile is so self-satisfied that Takeshi has to close his eyes and turn his face away; the desire to raise his head and bite at whatever part of Bancroft is closest is far too strong.

"Ah, ah, ah." Bancroft's palm cups Takeshi's cheek, firmly guiding his head back into place. "Didn't I tell you to look at me?"

Takeshi swallows heavily. He can feel the tips of Bancroft's fingers sliding up his shaft, and disgust fills his chest as he realizes that he is still uncomfortably hard. 

Spun up only to be spun up even more.

"What do you want from me?" Takeshi shifts his hips, arching away from Bancroft. His eyes widen and his breath catches as Bancroft curls his fingers around his cock. He yanks once, twice against the bonds pinning him to the frame, but there is no give, and now Bancroft has begun stroking in slow, firm motions designed to derail all hope of resistance and rebellion.

Bancroft chuckles. It's a low, soft sound that makes the pit in Takeshi's stomach harden. "You truly do not listen. I told you we still have business. Have you forgotten that you're _mine_?" He punctuates his words with a little squeeze that has Takeshi gasping and thrusting upwards. 

"As much as your initial services were... _underwhelming_ , it is terribly entertaining to have your whole existence at the tips of my fingers." His thumb rubs over the head of Takeshi's cock, and he grins as it twitches at the sensation.

Bancroft leans over Takeshi, reaching for something just above and beside his head. And as Bancroft brings the tangle of wires and sensors into view, a profound wave of horror washes over him. 

"Now." Bancroft makes a softly pleased noise in the back of his throat. "Shall we see what happens if you _find_ your little Falconer this time?"


End file.
